Viper Under the Flowerbed
by Arford
Summary: An unsuspecting Slytherin ironically becomes pulled into a plot twist which throws off his every calculated move for his final year at Hogwarts. Even more surprising is the cold, silver flower he encounters; but will he be able to make her bloom? Starts during the events of GoF but is AU. Rating is subject to change
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Another story. This won't be a one-shot and I cannot promise updates regularly, for my muse comes and goes. This is also unbeta'd, but I try and will continue to try my best.**

**Leave a review if you'd like; recommend it to others who have time on their hands. I need all the criticism I can receive.**

**~Arford**

**Viper Under the Flowerbed**

**Chapter One: The Boy-who-Never-was**

There were many days and nights considered beautiful in Hogwarts: School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. This particular evening, however, happened to be one of those occasions and was spent indoors. Ah, more importantly, it was witnessed by a certain reticent adolescent observing and extracting every detail that he could.

He glanced at the tables around him, drawing in the picturesque scene that his eyes beheld. It was lovely to say the least, but it was nowhere near the perfect masterpiece some would like to see. Still, it was more than nice enough; that, he could not deny.

His vision captured the sight of students bearing various crests signalling differing schools intermingling. The multitude of robe color variation did no harm but only enforced his previous observations. The tables spread across the Hall were full of merriment and laughter.

Well, most of them, at least.

Still, he noticed, were people who seemed left out, whether by their own volition or not, it didn't matter. Amongst a sea of blue clashing with bronze, he spotted a turquoise-clad figure haughtily acting as though she were queen of the realm. Although, from the looks of things, the general female population of the Hall seemed to feel irritated by her very presence in stark contrast to their male counterparts.

Similarly, in attitude, the children at the tables surrounding him had their heads high and proud, displaying a "We don't bow to anyone" attitude. Some were not as prominent and others didn't feel the need to provide any arrogance, for they felt it was already known - their place and rank among society, that is.

In particular, there was this one blonde brat who clearly thought himself above all others. Irritating was not the right word for him. Perhaps nauseating was a better choice. The snob was attempting to insert himself into a conversation with an older looking male, one who looked slightly beyond his school years. Bulgarian, possibly. The younger of the two refused to admit his failure and continued to pester his elder; a pity, their watcher supposed. He turned his attentions elsewhere.

The scarlet-robed students, however, were the most boisterous, and hence the most annoying. Too loud, really. A pair of red-heads slipped through the seats of their table chatting up many women while causing laughs in their general vicinity. He snorted. To those on their decent side those two troublemakers may have seemed to liven up the mood but he knew better, After all, McGonagall, despite berating them, assigning them detentions and docking points, had done truly nothing to dissuade them from pursuing their prankster habits.

He took one more glance around the Hall. All in all, he supposed that everyone was enjoying themselves along with making fond memories with their peers.

Everyone but him, of course. Around him and throughout the hall, students were rambling on and on with such excessive chatter and the typical sounds of joyful food consumption. But at the table where he resided, he was alone. It was the last table of his House, cast off into the darkest corner. The nearest torch and candles lay on the end closest to the other tables, leaving him in the black.

He had no need of bothersome things, such as being in the midst of the Hogwarts crowd. Why? Because he was him, and that surely said enough. But if not, then take a look at who he was.

Who was he? He was a no-name.

No one special. An absolute no one. At least, that's what he and his society made him out to be.

His existence faded because it stood out; it was odd, and thus it was forgotten. Easily. Truth be told: he didn't mind, though. He was fine with the way things were. No one ever saw him. Saw him for who he was. For what he was. What he could be.

Or saw him in general. They had better things to pay attention to, and, clearly, he was not one of such.

This extended to beyond the borders of his own schoolmates. His senses alerted him that no one from the Beauxbatons as well as the Durmstrang bodies registered his breathing body. Even the foreign delegations could see that he wasn't worth their time. And so… as usual… He was… alone, again.

Not that it went noticed, of course.

He sighed.

He completely understood his position in the world: the eternal outcast. But that didn't matter. What mattered was that no one took notice of him. It was crucial to his success, considering the boy attempted to enforce his already-invisible-self. However, despite the fact that he enjoyed his average (or less than average) existence, he wasn't a duffer by any means. Being invisible and being worthless were two very different things.

He shuddered at the thought of being one of _them_. Oh, if it wasn't bad enough being called a bloody badger, it was they were also to be robed in goldenrod.

Fortunately for him, the Sorting Hat agreed and he was spared the pain of being clothed in yellow for his Hogwarts career.

He was thankful that the Hat was as cunning as Salazar was and had the wit of Ravenclaw to follow it up. Had Gryffindor truly crafted the hat by his own hands, the boy was sure things would be even more screwed up than they were now. Well, luckily for him, his world did not traverse that route. Instead, here was he: the Boy-who-Faded.

Being known by no one had its cons, such as having little to no contacts outside a handful of individuals, but its advantage compromised for them. His strength lay in the fact that he was an unpredictable character. He liked that thought. Being the variable that could change things. It made him feel different.

And no one knew his extent in any regard; one of the many rules of tactical living: information is the manna of the sheep, therefore you must feed them just enough, or more than plenty to fatten them for the wolves.

Honestly speaking however, the adolescent could say that he was glad no one knew of him. Including his House mates.

When he was introduced to Wizarding Britain, he read up on its countless traditions and social etiquettes, only to find that Slytherins and their ilk despised his kind of people and lower. The boy was frightened as the Hat granted him the home of the basilisks, but he was quickly relieved as he found that since his fellow snakes considered him too far beneath them, they left him to his own machinations.

He was surprised that they ignored him, but he wasn't unhappy about it. It was better that way. Truthfully, he figured that he was lucky no one knew his surname.

Other than some of the teachers he had, he was quite sure that no other student or faculty member was aware of his existence. He accepted that wholeheartedly.

He was also grateful for the stupidity of the modern-day Slytherin House, for if they were any wiser, they would attack him. Then again, if they were any wiser, they would realize that their argument of blood-purity was as bollocks as it was during its conception.

Before, when he was a firstie, people remembered him for the first three days of school. He hated those three days. His place was handed out to him by his peers: as an orphan, he had no money, therefore he was worthless. And as a _Muggle-raised_, _not_-known-to-be-in-a-dark-family _half-blood_, there was almost no fate worse than the possibility of his fellow snakes catching wind of some lower-than-scum upstart making his name prominent.

The boy involuntarily winced at the reactions.

He remembered some words one Slytherin had said to another: "Those not of worthy blood have no place in this world of proper pureblood society."

Of course, that was many moons ago, but he was fortunate to have kept them in his mind. It had, after all, preserved his life for the past six years. And after this final year, there would be no more trouble with that. After his NEWTs, there would be nothing left. No more Houses, no more dealing with the fear of simple inter-House relations.

But that wouldn't be the end of such fears. Merely a boon in which the pain was lessened.

He wasn't blind, however. The boy knew that there was still more than enough discrimination to ensure that he would never attain a position of the highest standards in the current Wizarding Britain. He would not be the greatest Auror not politician; at best, he could more than likely be a very prominent member of the British educational system.

In turn, however, that road would require hours of nonstop effort accompanied by the taxing of his rather ingenious mind. From what he knew, Filius Flitwick was a renowned duelist in his prime who had defeated mountains and eventually settled for being a simple professor at Hogwarts. More importantly, he was part goblin and he was able to attain his current status. But what many disregarded or willfully chose to remain ignorant of was the fact that he was one of many thousands, tens of thousands, in Britain - he was only given his chances due to the fact that the British Isles could not keep such a man unknown. Had they done so, other countries would have gladly taken him in; what a wound that would have been.

Another notable non-pureblood in Wizarding eyes was the great Boy-Who-Lived: Neville Brutus Longbottom. Unfortunately, his status was extremely unique. While he was sure only Britain hailed the boy as a symbol of hope, he did not doubt that other countries were grateful for his stopping of the Dark Lord Voldemort so that they would not have had to have been involved. Thus, the boy was granted a rank which the Boy-Who-Faded could not hope to achieve. However, while he was sure that the fame would stay with Longbottom, he was unsure of how it would help the child would manage his life post-Hogwarts.

Disregarding all the possible trouble, he was content with his predicted future. He would not only be of age after his NEWTs; he would also genuinely be entering his adulthood; he would be privy to things he had not in years prior.

When Albus Dumbledore became Headmaster, many things had changed. He had adopted a very open policy, which, according to the raven-haired youth's mind, had dwindled the great light that Hogwarts once was. In fact, not only did Dumbledore enter the education system, he ascended into power within the British Ministry as well. Given the patterns, he figured that it was, while not solely based on the one man alone, mostly this lauded Professor's fault that Wizarding Britain had become a joke.

For starters, he was the one who employed Sybil Trewlaney, a quack for sure. She not only taught the most _imprecise_ form of magic, Divintation, but she was regarded by others in the same field as one of the faultiest. Moreover, it seemed that she had a yearly ritual of claiming that death would loom over one of her students.

Additionally, Dumbledore, while he was more than likely friendly with Cuthbert Binns, should have been able to see reason as to why the man needed to be exorcised. The ghost repeated only historical 'facts' about his precious 'Goblin rebellions'. By keeping a cycle of repetitive information that no one else cared about, it made all aspiring historians from the Hogwarts body worthless, seeing that their credentials would be biased and lacking. Worse, by being boring about it, Binns put his classes to sleep; that was roughly an hour (more, depending on certain days) wasted!

Unfortunately for this young man, he had been absentmindedly ignoring the Halloween Feast Hogwarts had extended to its guests, Durmstrang and Beauxbatons. He wasn't quite aware of the ongoings around him while he pondered. No, he was barely aware that his fork was gently scratching a bare plate. In fact, the boy was so much in thought that he was only woken from his mental stupor when a very low voice whispered words which made his ears perk.

"_Harry Potter_." The voice seemed uncertain and confused. It seemed to him that the words which rolled off Albus Dumbledore's tongue were spoken with curiosity and a strange unfamiliarity.

He blinked. The boy was unsure of what was going on; what had happened? Why did Dumbledore say his name?What was going on? Quickly, he attempted to assess his situation. Sheeple gathered around the Great Hall. Room, dim and quiet. Glowing cup of fire in the center of the room, with Dumbledore beside it. Cup. Fire. His dark, forest eyes darted back and forth before he remembered where he was. And the date.

"Oh," he whispered. He racked his brains for any recollection of him entering the tournament as he stood up, slipping on his ice-cold facade. He was more than sure that this was a setup. He had to be careful now. The eyes of all his peers from Hogwarts as well as those belonging to the students from Beauxbatons and Durmstrang all lit up with as much confusion as the renowned Headmaster's did. His fellow vipers' faces darkened only to be quickly replaced by their public masks.

While they probably hated him, they were more than likely glad a member of their House had won. Even more important than the interrogation(s) he would assuredly receive was their current task: not showing weakness nor disparity to the public eye. One of their House's foremost rules - Slytherins stand united; display no difference.

His mental facilities groaned but pushed his laziness and complaints aside - they had a job to do now. He had to find out how he was placed in this mess and if he could get out. More importantly, his mind was furious that someone dared to interfere with his quite calculated seventh year.

He would make whoever did this to him pay. No one was permitted to ruin him. And if this joker or whoever thought he… or she… had a chance, he would ensure that person would never consider repeating this sort of mistake.

His stride displayed poise and grace; he had practiced his postures and gait, swiftly strutting across the Hall. He made his way towards Dumbledore and sought the old man's eyes. Given the Headmaster's confusion, he was sure that the man didn't even know of his existence. But, he knew that Albus Dumbledore was not the grandfather everyone saw.

Dumbledore had been a leader in two wars; that made him a survivor, and survivors always were cunning. He knew from personal experience. Furthermore, upon entering the world of wizards, he read that his Headmaster was the Supreme Mugwump as well as head of the Wizengamot. Dangerous was the word to describe Dumbledore's political potential, thus he could never rule the old coot out.

Increasing his pace ever so slightly, he entered the back room.

Surprisingly enough, he had managed to keep his wits about when he saw who were his two competitors. Still, seeing who they were made him very, very aggravated. And this time, he was capable of facepalming without the repercussions. And groaning.

"You've got to be kidding." He sighed, striding directly to the back of the room and keeping an eye on the other two. He felt the cool stone of the wall touching his robes from behind, and he cast several scanners to confirm he was against a wall and not an illusion.

Paranoid he may have appeared (and have been), but he couldn't take chances.

The Quidditch star merely grunted at his arrival and the Veela had her nose in the air, haughty and proud. Neither looked at each other nor did they look back at him. The most he had seen were looks of wonder and astonishment as he entered; looks of the wealthy, the _elite_, looking at an insect as if they were shivering in revulsion. Their body language spoke of their incredulity, something he saw commonly in his House mates.

Suddenly, the doors burst open again and a flurry of faculty members flooded forward.

His own Head of House looked towards him murderously on the outside, but after years of knowing the man, it was easy for Harry to see that Snape's true emotions were buried far beneath his eyes. Fortunately, this also meant that he could read the man… just like a book, however much it irritated the potions master. The unsaid message, "_We will discuss this later_", was also aimed towards him.

Karkaroff and Maxime headed off to their students and began hastily chatting in their native languages. Harry's ears caught glimpses of the conversations but nothing substantial; they were only being congratulated, from what he could make out.

Dumbledore was an odd factor in his equation. The man simply stood in the center of the room, calmly waiting for everyone else to settle down. More than likely he was trying to piece together the players of this little game, along with the routes he intended for them to take.

Bagman, Harry had completely ignored. There was no doubting it - the man was a fool. He would serve almost no purposes unless Harry could manipulate some information out of him and Obliviate the man afterwards. His jolly speech and cheerful outlook was probably all he had; rumours spoke of him being in large debt and that all of his assets from his golden years as a Quidditch player had long since vanished.

Now, the last two people were just… downright odd. Spooky, somewhat.

Alastor "Mad-eye" Moody was an Auror of legend. His body count supposedly amassed to a number beyond all the other Aurors' put together. However, it was to be anticipated: the man was a paranoid veteran, just as Dumbledore was. While he was much younger, Moody had seen no less of war.

Rumors and tales about the man spun in drastically differing directions: some claim him to be a ruthless killer, not unlike his 'Dark' counterparts while others say the man was an unhappy recruit who sought to stop the fighting in the most efficient manner he could. But, rumors were only that. Harry preferred to base his opinion on his findings of the man and over the course of the month in which the former Auror had taught, he realized that there was something slightly off about him. He wasn't sure what, but there was something alright.

For now, he would continue to give the man the benefit of the doubt as a paranoid drunk who happened to take an hourly swig. He supposed he would resort to such measures if he were forced into a favor by Dumbledore, especially a year-long favor which involved incompetent staff members and equally weak-minded students.

Harry glanced at the other.

Bartemius Crouch. The name struck a bell, and Harry filed away a mental note to look up who the man was after her sorted out this ridiculous situation.

His expression displayed nothing out of the ordinary… if you considered 'ordinary' to be completely indifferent to revealing any sort of attachment to, well, anything.

The only time Harry could see any sort of emotion in the man's eyes were when he began to speak, addressing the Champions; that, and when his eyes gave off a small, barely noticeable, spark of pride and… misery? when the man spoke of the Ministry.

A quick snapping sound brought the boy out of his reverie. He gazed upwards and found the looming shadow of one Severus Snape.

"Potter," the man drawled. "What the Goblet saw in you, I will certainly never know; how could someone such as yourself become Champion should his reflexes and acuity be so obtuse?"

Harry snorted. "Why Professor, if I didn't know any better, I'd say this was a warning." His eyes shifted towards the others who seemed to also be off in their own worlds. "As you can see, while some are paying attention to whatever is going on, not everyone, which does mean others besides myself, _Professor_, is paying attention."

Snape flashed a look of false irritation; one which Harry commonly recognized as an amused expression. Perhaps the potions master realized that Hogwarts' 'hero' really did not care for the lions' den he was thrown into.

Yawning, Harry stood up and ignored everyone else in the room. "While I'm sure you all have interesting goals and topics to discuss, I believe I am feeling tired. You see, my dear Head of House noticed that my mind was wandering. I shall rectify that with some very much needed rest." A small "Ta ta" was heard just before the door to the room closed, leaving a blinking crowd of people.

Among the group happened to be a certain silver blonde who realized that throughout the entire meeting, the young Potter was not once affected by her allure - a feat she knew should not have been possible for even the most mentally fortified adults. She especially regretted her previous disposition towards him and his outerwear - she did not miss the look of annoyance. disgust, and callousness latching onto his face, even by the chance it might have possibly happened only to match hers and Viktor's.

His absence led to the rest of the part retiring for the night; thus, they all bade one another a pardon and a good night, each heading off on his or her individual paths.

As she made her way through the, if she could say so herself, dreadfully out-of-fashion gardens and back to the Beauxbaton carriages, the Veela thought about how Harry Potter was so lost in his own world that he never spared her a glance unless she was forced to be in his view. And even then, he barely even cared to catch any part of her in his vision; that, she was sure of. It irritated her enough that she could not understand just how he did it - but that was only the first part. She was starting to feel flummoxed at the thought of wanting to know him.

Really, who was the person known as Harry Potter?

An unintended additional effect of his selection as Hogwarts' champion was Fleur Delacour finding, in her dreams, a green and silver robed form highlighted by onyx hair with matching moss for eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Wow, more views than I expected, but hopefully I don't fail your expectations. Leave a comment if you wish; review at your leisure though.**

**Note that I do not have a beta and am not looking for one. But I am glad to take criticisms in your reviews, whether it be for plot, characterization, detail, grammar, etc.**

** Mionefan: Most definitely. I made him a seventh year for the simple reasoning that he would more than be qualified in the age department. As for Slytherin, I myself adore the House. Honestly, I think Harry should be there**

** Alyksandr: not at all, unfortunately.**

** elizabeth. croft: Yes, Slytherin Harry is indeed the best Harry (I hold nothing against Harry in other Houses but he deserves nothing but the best)**

** unrealwarfang: Thank you for that; I aim to be slightly unconventional, but we'll see where this gets to. Harry just accepts society for what it is; he understands that he can't do much about it. While I enjoy Harry being a savior, I'd like to remember him being just like everyone else - a struggling adolescent who needs to just be.**

** Queen of nerds77: Backstory, eh? Just wait and see. As for Neville being 'chosen', you mean him being the BWL? I like Neville and wish people gave him more credit, thus I gave him the title. Harry isn't that cold. It's simply that he is uninvolved. He just doesn't put himself forward. Well, not to most people.**

** Naginator: Harry doesn't need money. At least, not for now. And why is he a nobody? Honestly speaking, I just wanted him to be that way.**

** SlythrInHermione: I really like Harry x Fleur as well, but alas, my OTP is Harmony. I just felt like writing this story though so hopefully you'll enjoy it later on too. This is an AU therefore the BWL doesn't need to be selected; and no, this is NOT a Wrong-BWL story. As for the background stuff, I don't want to make a wall of text so I'll just say you'll have to see. He is an 'insect' because he is, literally, 'worthless'. Slytherins marry for power: political, economical, and magical - they see none of those in him, and they also dislike his impurity. Therefore, he is nothing to them. His coldness is a mask and he is more aloof than cold.**

**I truly hope you guys enjoy this story.**

**~Arford**

**Viper Under the Flowerbed**

**Chapter Two: Being a Champion means being real… er, alive.**

"Potter! Open up your door!"

Blinking slowly, the seventeen years old teen stirred. He must be having a bad dream. The pounding on the door was not real. Someone had pulled a fast one on him. He dreamt that he was selected by the Goblet of Fire and he had memories of walking through the Hall and making his presence known. This, of course, had all been a dream.

Or so he hoped. No, no; not hoped. Prayed, maybe. Probably. The poor boy muttered to himself continuously that right now was as much of a dream as the possibility of him becoming the representative for Hogwarts in the school's most recent endeavor: the resurrection of the Triwizard Tournament. But for him, his odds pulled through. Last night was no dream. He was most certainly the third Triwizard champion. And he hadn't even tried to become one.

The reality of the situation was that, as much as he hated to accept things which bothered him, he knew it was for the best if he did so immediately. While prevention was the best cure, the only left to do with illness was to take whatever help you could get and brace yourself for the rest, or so he told himself. He was still under his covers, turning ever so slightly, when the noise was louder this time.

He cursed himself mentally for forgetting to apply silencing charms; one of the few times he had ever forgotten.

"POTTER! OPEN. YOUR. DOOR."

Unfortunately for whoever was at the door, Harry Potter was not in the mood to get up. Oh, he knew that he would have to face many (annoying) consequences, he was also not ready at all to start his day. He had left the gathering of champions quite early and had slept through many hours of the night but he was no morning person. And this fool would be about to find that out too.

Go away, go away, leave… his mind was brutally trying to deny the pounding on his door. When it would not relent, the boy pushed himself out of bed, still in his nightclothes. Taking time to at least put on a pair of slippers and grab one of his wands (he always slept with one wand at his side; he kept a spare second that he "borrowed" under his pillow). Quickly, he camouflaged himself with his environment.

Opening the door, he looked out to see a towering Marcus Flint, eyes angered and snarling. The larger of the two was undoubtedly going to start a rather cumbersome tirade, which Harry stopped before it began. The older one looked around the room, finding nothing. But the door had to have been opened somehow, hadn't it? Flint opened his mouth, ready to go off, only to find that though his lips moved, he made no sound.

Suddenly, a very angry Harry Potter appeared before the Slytherin Keeper. His body posture spoke volumes of his irritation and impatience. He couldn't help but have a very strange feeling; he looked his younger in the eye and found himself shaking. Was this… fear?

"Flint," the green-pupiled one spoke curtly. "I will tell you this once. Your actions are unbefitting of a Slytherin. If you wish to address me, do so properly. And do it when I am out of bed and ready. Do you understand? More importantly, you are to never disturb my sleep. Again. Ever. Now let me restate this slowly. Do. You. Understand?"

Despite his brain not being able to engage with one-hundred percent capability to function, Harry Potter was granted extreme luck once again: of the cunning and ambitious qualities that had gotten most of the current Slytherins sorted, most had much of the latter and almost none of the former, making them extremely easy to manipulate. Flint was more than for certain without much wit; even the Slytherins themselves (as a collective whole) could never deny that. Which is exactly why they selected him to pester Harry - for many a Slytherin disliked the early rise, being spoiled children and all, and somehow (though correctly) concluded that their new hero had similar tastes in regards to sleeping patterns.

Flint was more than likely up because he ran the Slytherin House Quidditch team and was used to waking up so early for exercise. With his lack of smarts, he probably concluded that most people woke up at the same time he did. Marcus Flint was getting annoyed with his current situation for having to wait for Potter to leave his bed, but now he was frightened by the piercing glare that the two jade beads held. He hoped that his 'tough guy' face was still on.

Additionally, it probably didn't help that the bigger Slytherin had a wand pointed at his throat along with being silenced. He wasn't very proficient with silent casting of any sort, which Harry knew and abused.

No one threatened his sleep. Prefect, Head Boy, Professor, peer, elders, or youngers. No one.

A thick swallow and nod was all Marcus could pull off before Harry slammed the door in his face and went back to his bed.

He was just under the covers, relishing his comfort while hugging his pillow… only to realize what he just did. Wide-eyed, the boy's torso shot up so fast his heart took several moments to beat regularly again. His mind began to process the repercussions of his actions.

Flint was captain of the Slytherin Quidditch team. He would interact with others. Early. As in soon. More like now. Hopefully after a few hours of practice, but there was always time in the locker rooms during which people could easily be distracted. After all, adolescents were especially fond of gossip.

Harry slapped himself. Carelessness. Again. Gritting his teeth, he groused, "Bollocks." Tiredly rubbing his forehead, he wondered what else could turn downhill. "_Tempus_," he whispered. He wasn't quite sure, but he believed his left eye started to twitch after seeing the time. Two minutes after seven.

Although the sun was rising, his room kept in most of the shadows which mirrored his mood. His rather soft collection of pillows seemed to lose their comfort and his blankets appeared to have become heavy instead of snug. Stacking onto the top of the mess was another dilemma: his body forced itself to jumpstart, thus making it incapable of reaching the level of relaxation he required to return to rest.

"This is going to be a long day."

* * *

Thirty-four minutes past his 'wake up call' from Flint, Harry Potter finally found the energy and motivation to leave the solace known as his room. Of course, he couldn't simply walk out. No, that would not do, especially not after he was practically a magnet for (very much unwanted) attention.

He stood before his full-length mirror, adjusting his green robes and tie. Despite that no one noticed him, Harry had always kept up the proper appearance, just in case. Apparently his long-time efforts did not go to waste. Glancing once more at his reflection, he checked himself over for any tracking charms. Satisfied at being clean, he quickly disillusioned himself, making him and his belongings invisible to the naked eye.

As he walked down the dormitory corridor, he rushed down to the stairs and into the Slytherin common room. Only a few people were up at this hour; a handful of first years and some of the older Slytherins. Taking no chances, he slipped around the edges of the well-furnished room and whispered to the door, "_Entry_."

A part of him smiled when he thought about the password to his House; Salazar's domain was made out for their cunning, and what better way to use such by creating a simple keyword? The other Houses would have suspected it to be longer or more… derogatory, but that was unnecessary. Thankfully, their Head wasn't as incompetent as the average Hogwarts-affiliated-person (student, teacher, or previously either of the aforementioned) and saw reason.

Once he was out of the dungeons, he headed towards his favorite place within the castle's boundaries: the place that no one would have noticed him - the library. In addition to being a reclusive young bloke, Harry had always been an extremely avid reader. Combine the two and you got… well, you got him. Since his very first year, he knew that he was severely lacking in true Wizarding education; although he got along with magic simply fine, he knew nothing of custom and culture.

In theory, he proposed that he could see how Salazar was disgusted by Muggles invading their world. The founder saw it as an intrusion on their beliefs and lifestyle; ungrateful, ignorant newbloods who flooded in, assuming they had some place in an already pre-established society. At least, that's what Harry believed. Whereas that was a very human answer, for all people dislike change, Harry furiously felt that Slytherin's creed was beyond foolish. With no new magicals, they would eventually interbreed to the point that they would not only stop producing complete people, they would actually lose the magical population through simple family reduction.

From what he could count, roughly half of each year's worth of students at Hogwarts alone was not pureblood. To deny an estimated fifty percent of the populace any sort of upbringing in magic would surely kill their society. Not that the purebloods weren't doing an excellent job on their own. The lack of Wizarding etiquette that was denied to all non-purebloods guaranteed that.

Making his way past Madam Pince's desk, he slipped to the farthest end of the library and opened the door to the Restricted Section. Only a few other students ever wandered around the area, and that wasn't quite often. His favorite part of the castle also had secret lounges, one of the things he most enjoyed. Of course, finding them hadn't been easy, but they were worth the endeavor.

"_Artifice_," he muttered to a corner of the room. The floor began to shift, revealing an old set of steps and a cabin at the very bottom. "_Knowledge_."

The room wasn't anything grand, by any means. In truth, the seventh-year student felt it was more of a private study. It was no bigger than three meters high, four meters long, and five meters wide - something he spotted almost immediately. Pythagoras must have either been an extremely lucky muggle to chance upon a rather complex (for the time) Arithmancy formula which he sold to the non-magical world as his discovery, or, he was perhaps a brilliant Arithmancer himself. Either way, Harry was surprised that practically no one in his Runes or Arithmancy classes knew the theorem until their latter years.

A bed rested against the right side of the room, with a desk and a lone chair beside it. Against the remaining walls were shelves of books of great variety - they ranged from etiquette to charms to potions to transfiguration and even more. He turned his head towards the bed. Above the backboard was a portrait of someone who always welcomed Harry into his arms with healthy discussion.

This was one of the boy's very few contacts.

Magic was a wonder; it preserved a man's essence for so many years and had kept his knowledge alive (albeit hidden until Harry had rediscovered the portrait). On the plus side, the man was kept in his prime. His poise was what one could expect from a well-respected member of society, but the man on the inside never acted as such. At times, the Hogwarts champion wondered if he was the adult and the man in the portrait a boy. Regal eyes, sharp and piercing as well, stood out from his playful gesture. Their solid blackness was so deep, Harry sometimes shivered when he stared into them. Just like now.

"Harry," he spoke, shaking the boy out of his reverie. "I have heard the news."

Sighing, Harry dropped himself onto the bed and groaned. "Do you have any idea how much trouble this is? This is ridiculous. I cannot _believe_ this. Why would the Goblet choose me? I didn't even enter. And you know that! Although, it could be possible that, given the current state of Hogwarts, it saw that there really was no one else worthy and just decided to pick me. But I doubt it. What's your take on this?"

A drawn out silence was broken as the man in portrait offered his advice. "Perhaps… perhaps your conclusion may be correct. Given what you have told me about the contemporary standards for what constitutes a proper 'wizard', you may very well surpass the rest of your peers, even if you have never revealed anything to them. Magic knows, Harry. Magic," he paused, a sign in which meant he would ramble on (something that Harry was accustomed to at this point), "is sentient. It is completely alive an understanding of the world around it. We cannot always control magic.

"But your other concerns are also quite real - that I do not doubt. There is… there is a theory in which I believe more strongly."

"Which would be..?" Harry trailed off. He paused and held up a hand in front of the portrait, signalling for another silence. He couldn't just expect answers. His eyes closed and he relaxed himself on the bed, thinking furiously.

The Triwizard Tournament: what did he know of it? It originated several centuries ago and its competitors were selected through a combination of luck, magical strength, and many other traits. It wasn't based on appearances at all; no, the Goblet knew. Harry knew the Goblet had accumulated knowledge and wisdom over its years. It was surely capable of finding the most suited people as Champions. Magic had granted it such knowledge.

And magic knew who wielded itself the best. Harry was now under speculation and the scrutiny of hundreds, if not thousands, of sheep who tended to flock to the media and its current events.

But being a Champion was only half the problem.

The Tournament itself posed an issue: it was cancelled after years of consideration because although it was a contest of prowess, it was - more than often - a feared death trap. 'Eternal glory' lasted for as long as the next Triwizard came about. Or for as long as a competitor survived. Perhaps…

He snapped his fingers. "I see. This… this could be an opportunity to kill me. But… why me? That's what I'm confused about. I haven't fought against anyone that I can remember. I've been hidden for the majority of my years. Practically only a handful in the whole school were even aware of my presence, you included."

Gravely, his heart heart sank when the portrait said, "Perhaps the target is not specifically you. Perhaps they wanted to target the 'best' of the magicals. And although I agree with your idea of a murder attempt, I see this more as a chance to find the potential head of the future.

"As you very well know, modern Wizarding society across the globe has fallen in the sense that we have become content with our place. And when not, we start disputes between one another, as muggles do, only we must be more careful. It is rather possible that someone recognized that the Goblet would be the easiest way to single out the most potent of young blood. Furthermore, this event is practically littered with gamblers, and gamblers need information. This forces you out into the open; as for beyond that, I have yet to think of anything else.

"Also, from what I have heard, the French and Bulgarian Champions had entered their names and were practically guaranteed their spots - rumors tell me that the former is adept at charms and transfigurations whereas the latter excels at hexing and duels. From when I had witnessed Tournaments in my day, I know the cup does not simply pick the most well-rounded people; it knows who will pass and who will fail. The Goblet understands each individual entrant's skills and assets, therefore I can safely conclude that whoever placed your name in the cup has plans for Wizarding Britain."

Harry Potter was not often disturbed and he had become accustomed to such a life. But, he knew that things would change. He didn't know when, why, or how until recently, but there was nothing he could do but face forward.

His fingers continued to rub circles across his forehead while he thought of the new wave hitting his life.

Of course, he was afraid. He was frightened and angered - who wouldn't be - but he knew it would do him no good. He had to make the most of his situation, as he had always done and would continue to do, even after the Triwizard. He sat on the bed, hugging his knees for a few more minutes; he knew that breakfast was nearing its end and he had to head on to classes soon.

"Thank you, Ignotus." He always loved the man in the portrait - or at least he respected him with as much regard as he could muster - ever since he discovered the room in his first year.

"It was my pleasure, Harry. I await your next visit." If a portrait of a man could mourn, then this one most certainly did. Ignotus had been alone for so long; many times in the past, he had been visited by dozens of students. But as the years passed, things changed. No one came to the room. No one saw his picture. No one remembered him.

He was grateful for Harry; the boy was intelligent and courteous. He was generally clear-minded, though he still had much to learn. Ignotus longed for the days when he could teach once more, but those days were far gone. He would make the most of his time with Harry, hopefully guiding the boy to a better life.

Said boy nodded; he pardoned his teacher and friend before turning away to the door. Donning his public persona, he left the small room with one intention: surviving whatever came across his path.

* * *

"Ahem. Good morning, class," the diminutive Charms professor was restless as usual. He was far too excited about Charms for Harry's sake, but as he believed: to each his own. The half-goblin introduced to his pupils a rather useful spell. One which provided its user the ability to fade. Oh, it was close but it wasn't disillusionment, which the young snake was already a master of (in fact, as soon as he departed from the private study, he recast it on himself). This charm allowed objects to pass through one another. Similar to the ability ghosts have on the mortal plane.

Harry did not mean any disrespect, but truthfully, it didn't look too hard. He only paid a slight bit of attention; he figured the spell would be simple to master. After all, it took only his first try make it work, but he was sure there was room for a bit of improvement. A few more tries wouldn't hurt, but there was no reason to continue actually practicing so he decided to read (the book was also invisible; if not, a floating tome would be odd, wouldn't it?).

Upon the end of class, he closed his book quietly, only to find a note on the desk in front of him. It was direct: "Please stay after class." His eyes flickered towards his teacher, whose senses were more perceptive than he had guessed. Flitwick face his direction so that Harry could look at his eyes. The two of them waited for the remainder of the class to leave, after which Filius shut the door.

"Mr. Potter," he began cordially. From what the seventh-year could tell, he wasn't displeased by any means. "I'm rather impressed, truthfully speaking. You not only kept your physical presence masked, but you've also taken into account your shadow, your belongings, sound, and smell." Harry raised an eyebrow. Yep. He definitely underestimated Filius' observational senses.

"You are more than adept at Charms, which leads me to confusion. How could I not have taken notice of you before? And the conclusion is that you are no slacker. You, more than likely, have either some runes or wards upon your person which dissuade others from interacting with you. And that, I feel, is only the tip of the iceberg. I am thankful you were chosen to represent this school."

Harry noticed he stopped speaking for longer than a few moments and sighed. He didn't remove anything but his Disillusionment. "_Indico_." His eyes never left his Professor's, showing the proper courtesy that most would be surprised by. The smaller of the two seemed to silently nudge his student as if to say "Go on".

Harry drew in a breath and slowly began his speech. He prefered premeditate speaking but being spontaneous was a necessity so he practice until he was quite good at that too.

"As you have noticed, I am… more than ready for the Tournament. At least, in comparison to those of this school. I have done more work than, dare I say it and be arrogant, the entire student body in its entirety, from the first years to the seventh years, combined.

"However, I hope you do not speak of me to the others. You can tell I have no need nor want of them. I speak with who I must, and who I desire. That happens to not include the general population of Hogwarts. Or any school here, for that matter. These… sheep will only distract me and cause me more issues, sir." Being the Head of Ravenclaw meant that Flitwick had brains, so Harry was sure he could more lenient when speaking with him.

"On top of that, I have no wish for my competitors and this society to know my full capabilities. The Tournament will showcase only the necessities." A perfectly Slytherin answer; he had Flitwick assume that he entered willingly (Harry could not risk Flitwick being his enemy, but he wasn't so sure he wanted an ally either. At the moment, neutrality suited him best).

Filius Flitwick nodded, ashamed at himself for not looking past Harry's now-obvious disguises and the fact that there was such an amazing child in the modern Wizarding world. After all, disregarding his impressive skills, he had allowed a student to go by, generally unnoticed. He never even believed that a student could be so talented as to get through his entire school career practically as a shadow. Now, he was looking forward to what said student could do - in the Tournament and out in the world.

"Very well then, Mr. Potter. I hope you do come back. This was a nice discussion. While I cannot provide insight on the Tournament Tasks, I wish to be of some help and entertainment. I have a feeling you have ideas in your mind I have yet to even contemplate."

Harry nodded and swiftly washed his appearance away once more before turning to the door and slipping through.

The half-goblin blinked. That was surprising, to say the least. He himself wasn't that fast with a wand at Harry's age… and at that point, he was one of the European Dueling Circuit's best. In addition, nor was he that intelligent at the time. While he wasn't dumb, he was most certainly not at the level Harry was at. He paused his thoughts; actually, he wasn't sure if he even knew how smart the boy was.

There was no way to measure the depth of Harry's wisdom, knowledge, wit and dexterity, but he had high hopes.

He sighed and wished the boy ended up as one of his Ravens, but he knew that his attitude and heart belonged only to the home of the serpents. And even if he somehow ended up in another House, it was clear that the boy was nothing short of the quintessential snake.

He had no qualms about the raw talent he could glimpse just from today's brief encounter. 'Advanced' students today were so spoiled in the sense that they were spoon-fed their education today that only a select few were truly worthy of the title anymore. Sadly, his own House, while renowned for their wit, had truly fallen. He knew that the current Wizarding Britain was worse than it once was; Hogwarts had been the premiere faculty of magical education at the dawn of the twentieth century. Now, it was little more than under the norm.

Students like Hermione Granger were rare; he so often desired her to be in his House too, for she loved to learn. But even then, she wasn't talented. No. Only studious. In the current generation, he realized that only Harry Potter may have been the only gifted magical in all of Britain.

And in the generation before, Filius Flitwick had been saddened to note there had only been a handful of good students. Snape had been the most notable of them all; he was the world's youngest Potions Master, a title which the man adopted at the tender age of seventeen, upon the completion of his NEWTs and time at Hogwarts.

Now, he was left to wonder what Harry Potter could bring to the table.

Flitwick sighed and walked over to his desk, sitting down and rubbing his head. His eyes caught the bottom drawer of his table. He supposed it wasn't too early - only a tad before eleven - and that he could relax. Firewhiskey always riled up his goblin genes but it made his human half feel better.

* * *

Severus Snape was unsure what to make of his most prized student (not that he would ever let anyone else know that - unfortunately, said boy knew that he was). His dark eyes flickered to the farthest corner of his classroom, where a very heavily-warded cauldron was being toyed around with. Normally, he would be alarmed that anyone would try to cover up their work in case something went wrong. But knowing Harry Potter, the chances of anything going wrong were slim to nonexistent.

In fact, the Notice-Me-Not charms and Persuasion wards kept Potter safer than not having them on. Now that his social status rose from practically nothing to the top of the pyramid, he would have been hounded and gawked at, ruining the concentration of various people in the room. As if the population of dunderheads could focus enough to get by normally, he thought to himself. A wince struggled to make its way known, but he suppressed it with his trademark snarl. Even the modern-day Slytherins and Ravenclaws struggle to brew properly.

It was bad enough that Albus had him teaching children half his age, but it was extremely painful seeing as essentially none of them had the level of understanding that he did. He supposed he was more than likely biased, after all, Potions was his forte and he had indeed become the world's youngest Potions Master. But still… he just couldn't comprehend the complete lack of knowledge the children had.

And of course, faulty potions were dangerous. More so in their ingestion, though plenty the problems resided in the brewing phase… at least in a classroom. Why people didn't think before they acted, he would never understand. An unstable potion could melt a cauldron or have some sort of side-effect, such as exploding. That could then leak the flawed fluid into _other_ students' potions or possibly atop their ingredients and tools.

Honestly. He had to tell his Slytherins this each year. Every. Single. Year. And only a few remembered! The horror of it all just ate at him.

When the boy was finished, he slipped out of his wards and left a small vial behind one of the piles of papers on Snape's desk. Snape didn't need to look at Potter to let him know to stay after class; he had generally done so often enough. Sometimes, he wished Potter could stay at Hogwarts longer - the boy was the ideal Slytherin, a perfect model of Salazar if he could dare say so himself. Even more so than the Founder's heir, his former master.

Speaking of his former holder, he truthfully mourned for his prized pupil. While he was often callous and cruel, he was not completely heartless. Harry Potter had been the unfortunate recipient of the results of the Dark Lord's war. From what he pieced together, the boy was orphaned when Death Eaters took him hostage as they assaulted his parents.

James Potter had never been someone Snape liked, but he was not Snape's enemy. Severus was too busy in school working on creating and modifying the mechanics in Potions to have time to notice much else, but he had heard about James and encountered the man once or twice in their time at Hogwarts. Although the pureblood had been loud and brash, it was true James was talented. He had heard of the joker's astonishing skill at Transfiguration. Minerva had recommended him for taking his Mastery exams but James refused, choosing instead to serve the Auror corps.

Snape recalled a heated conversation he had overheard when Minerva almost begged James to become her apprentice. Magical talent was apparently low but his generation had fairly noteworthy students. She gave up when James had insisted that dark times were approaching and that he had to defend his people and his family. It seems they cut contact after that, but he couldn't be sure of it.

The Potters, from Snape's memory, were neither poor nor rich. They were not a Noble House nor an Ancient House; they were not like the House of Black which was granted both titles. They were the middle of the bunch… Such families were a large target for Death Eater recruitment since they were promised power.

But James Potter spurned them, for he married a newblood. Lily Evans, Snape remembered. She was not as good as he in the art of potions but she was rather well-versed in it enough for him to be her partner during class and from older rumors, he recalled her getting rejected for her Mastery as Charms Mistress due to her heritage. She wasn't even allowed to ask Flitwick for help seeing as neither of them were 'qualified' by Wizarding Britain's standards.

They were warned not to wed - both by supporters and enemies, for both sides knew the consequence. However, as love was and always has been and would continue to be, it would not rest. The two were in love, and they ignored the words of others, continuing on their way.

With their union, however, their fate was sealed; the Dark Lord had ordered his minions to eliminate them. Ordinarily, they would not have been able to do so, as both were their generation's premiere. But Death Eaters were not kind people. No, they were scum. Beyond all terrible acts they could have managed, they dragged an innocent child into an adult's game of trickery and murder.

And how had no one gone and looked for the poor boy?

Often, he wondered what happened to the friends of the Potters and other families, but he figured that everyone was so paranoid that no one trusted each other. A lack of communication between once-friends and associates probably ended abruptly or bitterly. Eventually, that led to the demise of other families, pureblood, mixed, and muggleborn alike.

Snape glanced at one of the worst decisions of his life and clutched his left forearm. If he wasn't so biased and secluded at his time during his school years, he could have met with them and dare he say it, not have gone down his darker path in life. But at the time, he had been blinded by the allure of power and Dark Arts. And that was then. There was no way to change his past.

He would just have to work on the now - the upbringing of their son. The son of two of Hogwarts' most talented. The son of the forgotten heroes. Heroes to a single casualty. Heroes whose only legacy was their orphaned child.

Now, Severus Snape was not a man who believed in coincidence. Nor was he often a man to believe in luck. But Harry Potter was a young child who, in his mind, was blessed - by Merlin or whatever deities anyone could conceive. He was raised at an orphanage, unknown to the world (both magical and not) until Snape was assigned to visit the boy with his Hogwarts letter. Yet he still turned out the way he was.

Their initial meeting left Snape dazed; at the time, he wasn't sure what to make of Harry. The boy had been so accepting of his situation and he knew every twist and turn. Every angle he could see and each path he could walk. With that, he knew. Severus Snape waited for Harry Potter to arrive at Hogwarts and enter the Slytherin scene.

At first, he felt extremely disappointed that Harry's name never made it in the whispers. Until he realized that Harry was only playing his part and acting as he should have been - as the pure Slytherin who made the most of his undesirable position. He wasn't a stupid boy who had foolish notions of pureblood superiority or felt the need to escalate his position to the upper echelons of society through alliances and marriage. He simply worked to better himself.

The boy was not only gifted with the ability to remain unnoticed, he was an intellectual Hogwarts had not seen since long ago. Everything seemed to work out in his favor and Snape would do everything to help him.

Now if only they could find the culprit for the most recent disturbance.

The thought of someone sneaking into Hogwarts once sickened the esteemed professor, but he had long since realized that Hogwarts, while its wards were incredibly powerful, was not infallible. No structure was. He couldn't say 'ever would be'; the future was uncertain, after all, but for now he was sure that there were always cracks in the wall.

He had been missing several potions ingredients, and he knew exactly what they were for. The disguised thief was either some self-indulged joker who thought that it would be funny to mess around, but it was more than likely that there was a hunter on the loose.

Class ended and the rush of students leaving his classroom always left the man a bit more satisfied. Much better, he thought.

Potter left himself Disillusioned as usual but he didn't mind. It was something else he found mildly amusing. He figured it was left to him to open the discussion. As usual. Lazy child.

"Potter, have you any theories on your introduction into the tournament?" he began carefully.

"Yes, Professor, I spoke with someone concerning the incident." Ironically, the one person Snape desired to help had a level of paranoia well-beyond the established norm; he was not willing to diverge the name of his associate. "He seems to think that the tournament could be someone looking for the most magically potent of the younger ones - for what reasons though, we are unsure."

"Hmm… Do you have a list?" Snape knew the boy could figure out the unsaid words on his own. He always did at some point, usually while others spoke to him.

"Unfortunately, no." He raised an eyebrow. Harry was not giving him information? Ah, he realized. The boy seemed to suspect him. He quickly sought to discourage that notion.

"Potter, I can assure you it is not me. While I have a wish to see you become successful," there was an incredibly funny invisible snort, "you and I both know you needed not compete in this farce to eventually be so. On the other hand, I warn you now that it could be anyone. No, I know you are not stupid. Let me finish. Someone has taken to… _relieving_ me of lacewings, boomslang, leeches, powdered bicorn, knotgrass and some fluxweed."

He didn't have to see the boy to know that his posture had frozen up. After a few seconds, the student thanked his teacher.

"I see. I shall keep that in mind." Potter sighed. He paused for a small while before beginning a request for Snape, one the elder would not regret whatsoever. "Professor... Since I have yet to have an official advisor, I will be selecting you. Will that be too much of a challenge?"

"Not at all. Rather, it should provide to be interesting. After all, a man can only brew for so long. And if not that, one can sit and watch fools do it instead but for just a short while."

"Very well then. Professor Severus Tobias Snape, Head of Slytherin House," where and when had the boy learned his middle name? "I, Harry James Potter, student of Slytherin House, request of you, in accordance with the rules as a Champion of the Triwizard Tournament between Hogwarts, Durmstrang, and Beauxbatons, to be my Tournament Advisor and Instructor."

"I, Severus Tobias Snape, Head of Slytherin House accept the request of Harry James Potter, student of Slytherin House, and pledge my aid to his cause in the aforementioned Triwizard Tournament under the banner of Hogwarts: School of Witchcraft and Wizardry."

A blue glow filled the room followed by a relaxed silence.

"I shall be going now, sir. Thank you again for your time."

* * *

Harry Potter was not amused. The game was afoot and though he wasn't on the initial roster list, he was going to come out the winner. No matter what it took. Snape's information had been most helpful. But who could it be? The thoughts bugged the boy until he could stand it no more. As soon as the words buzzed into his ears, his mind began to jump at the possibilities.

He fled from the Potions classroom to the outdoors of Hogwarts grounds. It was at times like this that he was grateful for the forest and gardens of the castle. Hogwarts' plantlife, thanks to Sprout, was wonderful. Being a very reclusive person left him time to appreciate whatever else there was besides people, which happened to include nature.

Of course, the Forbidden Forest wasn't as much as the name suggested. At least not to him. He had to repress a snort in case the centaurs heard him. Bane was an annoyance but since the creature wasn't good enough to track him, he thought about it and left them alone.

Harry walked through the woods pocketing a few potions ingredients here and there and turned around to find his favorite spot near the edge of the forest. He was surprised again, and he found that this one at least, was more pleasant than the last.

The veela from Beauxbatons was sitting in the small opening of the forest that he had so carefully cleared and warded - how had she gotten in? - on his favorite rock. That rock was large enough to extend from the border of the water a bit into the land. He would not sulk just because she took his favorite spot. At least not now.

He wondered if he should speak, but he decided against it. No, he was content with sharing… for now. His gaze lingered on the beautiful scene before him. No, he wasn't looking at the veela; he was not that weak-minded to be drawn to such a thing as an allure. The sunset before him was always best seen from this spot, something he discovered a few years ago. It lingered with a radiant grace, letting its hues announce themselves through the sky and lake.

Although his secret space wasn't his alone anymore, at least he knew someone else could appreciate nature too. Perhaps he had been too hasty in judging the girl. His eyes found themselves fixated on her, despite his resistance. He wasn't drawn by her allure, but something tugged at him. It was her solitude, he realized. She seemed so lonely. Almost as much as he was.

Harry Potter was not one to make forward gestures, but he decided against the more skeptical parts of his nature. He walked up behind her and silently conjured a lone flower, placing it on the rock a little walk backwards so that when she turned, she would find it.

He wasn't one to assume, but he knew she would see it. The sunset was halfway gone and she would have to return to her carriages. The only thing he assumed this time was that she would take this extended hand.

With that, Harry Potter retired to the castle.

* * *

He blinked as he made it into his bed. His premonition was most certainly correct. Today was unusually long. He closed his eyes, hoping that the next day would not be the same.

But for whatever reason, his dreams were peaceful that night.


End file.
